Man alive！How I wish I had had the sense，years ago，to put stop-loss orders on my impatience，on my temper，on my desirefor self-justification，on my regrets，and on all my mental and emotional strains.Why didn’t I have the horse sense to size up each situation that threatened to destroy my peace of mind and say to myself：“See here，Dale Carnegie，this situation is worth just so much fussing about and no more”？...Why didn’t I？
However，I must give myself credit for a little sense on one occasion，at least.And it was a serious occasion，too—a crisis in my life—a crisis when I stood watching my dreams and my plans for the future and the work of years vanish into thin air.It happened like this.
In my early thirties，I had decided to spend my life writing novels.I was going to be a second Frank Norris or Jack London or Thomas Hardy.I was so in earnest that I spent two years in Europe—where I would live cheaply with dollars during the period of wild，printing-press money that followed the First World War.I spent two years there，writing my magnum opus.I called it The Blizzard.The title was a natural，for the reception it got among publishers was as cold as any blizzard that ever howled across the plains of the Dakotas.When my literary agent told me it was worthless，that I had no gift，no talent，for fiction，my heart almost stopped.I left his office in a daze.I couldn’t have been more stunned if he had hit me across the head with a club.I was stupefied.I realised that I was standing at the crossroads of life，and had to make a tremendous decision.What should I do？Which way should I turn？Weeks passed before I came out of the daze.At that time，I had never heard of the phrase “put a stop-loss order on your worries”.But as I look back now，I can see that I did just that.I wrote off my two years of sweating over that novel for just what they were worth—a noble experiment—and went forward from there.I returned to my work of organising and teaching adult-education classes，and wrote biographies in myspare time—biographies and non-fiction books such as the one you are reading now.
Am I glad now that I made that decision？Glad？Every time I think about it now I feel like dancing in the street for sheer joy！I can honestly say that I have never spent a day or an hour since，lamenting the fact that I am not another Thomas Hardy.
One night a century ago，when a screech owl was screeching in the woods along the shore of Walden Pond，Henry Thoreau dipped his goose quill into his homemade ink and wrote in his diary：“The cost of a thing is the amount of what I call life，which is required to be exchanged for it immediately or in the long run.”
To put it another way：we are fools when we overpay for a thing in terms of what it takes out of our very existence.
Yet that is precisely what Gilbert and Sullivan did.They knew how to create gay words and gay music，but they knew distressingly little about how to create gaiety in their own lives.They created some of the loveliest light operas that ever delighted the world：Patience，Pinafore，The Mikado.But they couldn’t control their tempers.They embittered their years over nothing more than the price of a carpet！Sullivan ordered a new carpet for the theatre they had bought.When Gilbert saw the bill，he hit the roof.They battled it out in court，and never spoke to one another again as long as they lived.When Sullivan wrote the music for a new production，he mailed it to Gilbert；and when Gilbert wrote the words，he mailed it back to Sullivan.Once they had to take a curtain call together，but they stood on opposite sides of the stage and bowed in different directions，so they wouldn’t see one another.They hadn’t the sense to put a stop-loss order on their resentments，as Lincoln did.
Once，during the Civil War，when some of Lincoln’s friends were denouncing his bitter enemies，Lincoln said：“You havemore of a feeling of personal resentment than I have.Perhaps I have too little of it；but I never thought it paid.A man doesn’t have the time to spend half his life in quarrels.If any man ceases to attack me，I never remember the past against him.”
I wish an old aunt of mine—Aunt Edith—had had Lincoln’s forgiving spirit.She and Uncle Frank lived on a mortgaged farm that was infested with cockleburs and cursed with poor soil and ditches.They had tough going—had to squeeze every nickel.But Aunt Edith loved to buy a few curtains and other items to brighten up their bare home.She bought these small luxuries on credit at Dan Eversole’s drygoods store in Maryville，Missouri.Uncle Frank worried about their debts.He had a farmer’s horror of running up bills，so he secretly told Dan Eversole to stop letting his wife buy on credit.When she heard that，she hit the roof-and she was still hitting the roof about it almost fifty years after it had happened.I have heard her tell the story—not once，but many times.The last time I ever saw her，she was in her late seventies.I said to her；“Aunt Edith，Uncle Frank did wrong to humiliate you；but don’t you honestly feel that your complaining about it almost half a century after it happened is infinitely worse than what he did？”
Aunt Edith paid dearly for the grudge and bitter memories that she nourished.She paid for them with her own peace of mind.
When Benjamin Franklin was seven years old，he made a mistake that he remembered for seventy years.When he was a lad of seven，he fell in love with a whistle.He was so excited about it that he went into the toyshop，piled all his coppers on the counter，and demanded the whistle without even asking its price.“I then came home，”he wrote to a friend seventy years later，“and went whistling all over the house，much pleased with my whistle.”But when his older brothers and sisters found out that he hadpaid far more for his whistle than he should have paid，they gave him the horse laugh；and，as he said：“I cried with vexation.”